“I can’t believe someone would actually go through with it after all those threats,” he says quietly.
The comment hangs in the air for a moment.
Threats? As in plural?
The three of them huddle together in what seems to be an appropriate and horrific family grief, while Noah begins coordinating with law enforcement.
Sheriff’s deputies arrive in droves, followed by crime scene tape and the kind of organized chaos that always accompanies sudden death in small towns.
The corner of the festival that was supposed to be about seasonal joy has been transformed into an official crime scene, complete with photographers and evidence bags.
The coroner’s van pulls up near the lake, and I watch as the happy celebration officially becomes secondary to homicide investigation. Festival music still plays in the distance, children still shriek with delight at the games, but here behind Bunny’s booth, spring has taken a decidedly darker turn.
And just as I didn’t think things could get any worse, a tall brooding redhead stomps on over with a bun so tight it pulls her entire face back in time ten years.
It’s Ivy Fairbanks, Noah’s equivalent at the homicide department.
She heads my way and frowns. “I can’t believe you found another one.”
Everett tips his head at her. “Are you new around here?”
I take a moment to shoot my handsome hubby a look.
“Honestly, Ivy, it’s more like they keep findingme,” I’m quick to correct her. “I’m starting to think I should come with a warning label.”
“I’m starting to agree with you,” she says dryly. “It looks pretty straightforward as to how you pulled it off this time. A single stab wound to the chest, appears to have hit something vital. Time of death probably within the last hour.”
Both Everett and I take a moment to glare at her. Ivy knows darn well I’m not responsible for the carnage. At least not the murder aspect of it.
She nods to the body. “The knife has a nice pearl handle. Someone has good taste in cutlery.”
I grunt at the thought. “That someone would be me. Or more tothe point, my deceased grandmother Nell. She’s the one I got the bakery from,” I tell her, feeling more than slightly sick. “It went missing from my cakewalk supplies. My coconut cake hasn’t been taken as a prize just yet. And I was on the hunt for it when...” I gesture toward the poor man on the ground.
Ivy raises an eyebrow. “Your knife, your coconut cake, your crime scene discovery. You’re certainly thorough, Ms. Lemon.”
“I prefer to think of it as being in the wrong place at the right time,” I mutter.
“Or the right place at the wrong time,” Noah interjects as he waves Ivy his way, still coordinating with the deputies who are now photographing everything within a fifty-foot radius.
The festival continues around us, but the Easter magic has definitely been punctured. Nothing says resurrection celebration quite like a fresh corpse and a homicide investigation. Too bad Duncan Whitmore won’t be making a reappearance anytime soon.
As the spring breeze ripples across Honey Lake, carrying the scent of fried dough and chaos, I can’t help but think that somewhere in this crowd of bunny-eared festivalgoers, a killer is probably enjoying funnel cake and getting their picture taken with the Easter Bunny.
Looks like this holiday season, I’ll be hunting something a lot more dangerous than hidden eggs.
There’s a killer to be found, one who made the mistake of using my Grandma Nell’s antique pearl knife, and I’m going to make them pay in more ways than one.
LOTTIE
Monday morning at the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery smells like sugar and fresh starts—the true breakfast of champions.
The air is thick with the scent of fresh-baked coconut bunny cupcakes, my Easter spice bread, and enough caffeine to resurrect the dead. Which, given yesterday’s events, might actually be helpful.
The breakfast rush just died down, and I’m staring at my depleted Easter display with the satisfaction of a baker who’s sold out of almost everything before lunch. My coconut bunny cupcakes have been reduced to crumbs and fond memories, and the hot cross buns are down to three lonely survivors. The lamb-shaped vanilla cakes huddle next to pastel Easter egg macarons, while chocolate nest cupcakes topped with candy eggs fill the empty spaces. My carrot cake with cream cheese frosting stands tall in the center, with every swirl and rosette piped to perfection.
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery occupies the cozy space next to what used to be Nell Sawyer’s entire operation before she expanded into the baking business. The walls are painted a warm shade of butter with pale yellow accents, and Easter decorations are draped everywhere—pastel streamers, paper bunnies, and enough plastic eggsto stock a small farm. Display cases line the front counter, their glass fronts showcasing my holiday creations in all their sugary glory. Mismatched tables and chairs fill the seating area, each one telling the story of yard sale victories and budget decorating. The espresso machine hisses and gurgles from its position behind the counter, while the scent of vanilla and cinnamon creates an atmosphere that makes people want to stay longer than they should and spend more money than they planned. And both of those things make this business owner smile.
The Cutie Pie happens to share a wall with the Honey Pot Diner—Nell’s original baby before she passed it down to me—and I quickly implemented my sister Charlie into the deal. Charlie now runs the place with my bestie Keelie Fisher. Fun fact, Keelie married my high school boyfriend Bear. He was sort of a cad way back when, but he’s cleaned up his cheating ways since then. Or at least he had better have. I’ve got a Glock named Ethel, and she’s holding onto a bullet with Bear’s name on it, just in case.
